


Kitty's Hobbit Ficlet Collection

by HiddenKitty



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Cultural Misunderstandings, Dementia, Diplomatic Relations, Drunkeness, Dwarf Gender headcanons, Dwarf culture headcanons, Erebor Husbands, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Old Age, Shire Husbands, dildos (except not really), giant Dwarven dildos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 12,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbit ficlets I've banged out that fall under 1000 words, mostly bagginshield - seems sensible to collect them somewhere.  :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tauriel's Room (Kíliel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An expansion on [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4918423/chapters/11579677), about Elves living in mountains.
> 
> Also has [a slightly crummy drawing (by me)](http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/post/138275553853/its-meant-to-be-kili-and-tauriel-but-i-dont-even) to go with it.

A tree grows at the summit of Erebor. 

In the days of Smaug, the dragon flew above the mountain and the flick of his tail sent avalanches down the slopes, laying bare the topmost rooms and caves of once-mighty Erebor. Now, Smaug is dead and the mountain reclaimed, and much has been restored, but these rooms still remain open to the sky. It is in one of these that the tree grows, shielded from the wind by the ruined walls. There is no soil, of course, and the air so high is thin and cold. For a tree to grow and thrive, there must be some magic at work. Someone must be tending it.

Far below, in the Royal Quarters, lie the rooms shared by Prince Kíli and his Elven wife. In one corner of their bedroom a small, insignificant doorway is hidden by a curtain, and beyond it lies a stair, cut roughly from the stone, the marks of a chisel plain and unskilled. It climbs for a thousand steps before the air begins to move, a breeze as sharp as ice, and the walls begin to lighten. A thousand steps more, and there is an archway that leads to a room with no roof. There, growing from bare stone, is the tree.

This room has no bed, nor any furniture at all, but there is a tall pile of soft, furred goatskins and embroidered Elven quilts, and a wide bowl cut into the stone floor where a fire can be laid. Tauriel sits, singing to the tree of all her loves - the stars, the mountain, the tree, and her husband. The tree grows strong, listening to her, and Kíli rests his head on her lap and hums along.

In what seems the blink of an eye he has become old, and cannot bound up the stairs ahead of her as he once did. He refuses to let his wife help him, however, huffing and puffing and grumbling under his breath. Tauriel twines her smooth fingers between his broad, gnarled ones, and bends to kiss his brow. “I love you,” she says, as she must have done hundreds of times. Kíli smiles, the same wicked grin it has always been. 

_“Amrâlimê,”_ he replies, and winks.

His hair is shot with silver now, like the stars in the night sky above them, like the pale leaves of the tree that whisper in the moonlight. Tauriel cannot envy those who have sailed West before her. She wants nothing more than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for pangur-pangur :3


	2. Jambags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where does that phrase come from, really?

Fili and Kili have been sent to fetch firewood, but when Bilbo finds them, they appear to be swordfighting with branches instead. Dwarves may not feel the cold, but Bilbo is hungry and chilly and would like there to be a campfire as soon as possible. He is not happy.

“Stop mucking about!” he scolds them, hands on hips. “You two are the biggest pair of jambags I’ve ever seen.”

In the midst of regathering his bundle of sticks, Kili stops, looking up in confusion. “Jambags?”

“...yes,” says Bilbo after a pause. He can feel his face going red. Oh dear.

“What’s jambags?” asks Fili, equally agog.

“Er,” says Bilbo. “You know, when you, er, make jam. When you’re straining the stewed fruit through the muslin bag.”

“Oh,” says Kili in disappointment. “I thought it was rude.”

“Halin used to make jam,” says Fili suddenly. “You remember. With berries. And those bags he hung up over the pans. They were reddish pink, heavy-looking.”

Their eyes light up. “So it IS rude,” says Kili in delight, and Bilbo groans.

\--

A few days later Bilbo overhears an argument between the two. “You jambag!”

“You’re a jambag!”

“You’re TWO jambags!”

“The noise you’re making, you’re like THREE jambags!” yells Dwalin from across the fire, and the two brothers fall about laughing. There follows an explanation and excited discussion of Hobbit profanity, which Bilbo refuses to join in with, despite much pleading.

Thorin has been listening from a little ways off, and once the conversation has moved on, he wanders across to where Bilbo is still sitting. 

“Jambags?” he says quietly, but it isn’t really a question. You can tell because he’s already smirking.

“Well. Travel broadens the mind,” shrugs Bilbo, and tries not to blush too hard.


	3. Snowy Yuletide (Bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine: thorin and bilbo snuggled up together in a nest of quilts in front of the fire, while big fluffy snowflakes gently fall outside the window, enveloping the shire in a blanket of white.

The snow was well and truly sticking by the time Bilbo looked out of the window, a layer of white already softening the stark winter trees and fences across Hobbiton. Smoke rose from every chimney along the hill, and the round smial doors were the only colour left, still peering out cheerfully through fat falling snowflakes. It was a pretty view, indeed; one that Bilbo had seen many times since his childhood.

Dim, grey light glowed through the snow clouds, streaming into Bag End and picking out the silver in Thorin’s hair, and wasn’t that a prettier sight than all.

It had begun to snow on their way back from market, the first flakes only small, but soon they were caught in something close to a blizzard and both had broken into a run. They had arrived back at Bag End sweating and giddy enough that stripping off their coats had rapidly progressed to other layers. They made it as far as the bedroom, though unfortunately not the bed. Although the quilt hastily tugged from the bedstead had spared Bilbo’s knees, once he had finally detached himself from his husband and caught his breath again, it wasn’t quite enough to keep out the chill.

“Goodness, it’s bitter out there,” he grumbled, tucking the quilt more closely around his shoulders. “I can feel it coming through the window. We should get the fire started.”

Thorin merely grunted. They had been married long enough by now for him to understand that by “we” Bilbo meant “you”. That was only fair, since Dwarves seemed to have some internal furnace no poor, small, shivering hobbit could hope to match. The fact that it was also pleasant to watch Thorin unfold himself, still stark naked, and walk to fetch more kindling from the parlour, was just a happy bonus. 

Bilbo grinned as he watched Thorin deftly assemble a lay in the bedroom’s little fireplace. There was nobody quite like Dwarves for getting a blaze going swiftly, and soon it was crackling merrily away. 

“Come back in here, then,” said Bilbo, bravely lifting a corner of the quilt, and Thorin slid back in beside him, his skin still deliciously heated, wrapping his arms around Bilbo’s middle and kissing his cheek.

“I’m sure this smial didn’t use to be so bloody cold,” sighed Bilbo, eyeing the snow beginning to bank in the corners of the windowpanes. He could still feel a draft seeping up through the floorboards, despite Thorin’s warm and wandering hands. “Maybe we’re getting old.”

Thorin paused, mid-caress. “Bilbo, I have been old for most of your life.”

“Now, wait, no,” insisted Bilbo. “No no no. I won’t have that. You are a Dwarf in his prime, Thorin Oakenshield.” 

“If you say so,” Thorin shrugged, the smile in his voice half-muffled as he returned to pressing kisses against Bilbo’s neck. The scratch of his beard made a rather nice tingle against skin already abraded from their last tumble.

“For example,” said Bilbo, feeling rather warmer already, “if you and I were truly old, how could we be ready for another go so soon?”

“True enough,” conceded Thorin as Bilbo squirmed around in his arms to face him, and oh, his eyes were bluer than any sky. “Once again, I must bow to your wisdom.”

A fire and a quilt were all very well, but there were better ways to keep oneself warm over Yuletide, reflected Bilbo, taking Thorin’s face in both hands and kissing him soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Mithrilbikini :3


	4. Dark Vision (Bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts about how the Dwarves' Dark Vision might work, and how it might affect Bilbo's relationship with Thorin.

Bilbo dreams of dragonfire reflecting off piles of gold, vast wings fanning heat towards him and huge, blazing red eyes. He dreams of a dark cave, a wide lake, a hoarse sing-song voice and twin greenish bulbs that glow with unearthly light. He dreams of burning pine trees and growling wargs, their stares burning as bright as any flame. Lights in the dark, always, and though Bilbo may run or riddle, he can never get away from them.

When he wakes it is to two golden eyes gleaming above him, much too close. Bilbo screams and pushes as hard as he can before hearing Thorin’s grunt of discomfort and realising what he has done.

“Thorin!” he says, and it may sound more like a squeak than he would like. His push turns into a grab, dragging his husband back again before he falls off their bed entirely.

“I am here,” says Thorin, scrambling towards him. The twin lights wink in and out as he blinks himself awake. Bilbo can’t look, not just yet. He presses both hands to his face, covering it.

“I’m sorry, your eyes,” he admits shakily, hoping he won’t cause offence. “The dark vision thing. It, it only unnerves me, sometimes.”

He can feel Thorin turn away at that, and hears him fumble for something beside the bed. Bilbo dares to look at last. A moment later the taper on the nightstand is lit, but when Thorin glances back at him, his pupils are still huge and black, shrinking weirdly even as Bilbo flinches again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” stammers Bilbo, screwing his own eyes shut once more. What a fool he is, to be fearful of his own beloved husband.

“Peace, Bilbo,” says Thorin, petting his hair gently. He can feel himself calming under the warm hand stroking his head, and the soft rumble of Thorin’s speech. “I know it is strange to you, Amralime. I did not mean to make you afraid.”

“You didn’t,” says Bilbo, and they both know it’s a lie. Thorin’s voice is like an anchor, its chain something Bilbo can climb back to the real world. “Oh, Thorin, please just keep talking. Please.”

That’s a hard request to make of him. Thorin is not given to babble the way hobbits are. “What should I say? It is no evil thing. To us, it is the light of our inner forge,” says Thorin hesitantly. “The spark of life granted to us by Mahal.”

“Oh, but, wasn’t that Eru?”

“Eru gave us Will,” corrects Thorin, pulling him closer. “Mahal made us in his perfect image, but we were severed from him when we awoke.”

“Ah,” says Bilbo, a spark of interest kindled, and his alarm is already fading, subsumed in curiosity. He has heard the story before, of course, but perhaps he hadn’t considered it from quite that angle. “Yes, I see. But a good father wants his children to become independent, I suppose.”

“Yes,” says Thorin softly, sounding pleased. “That is why our Maker agreed to have us sleep once more, as Eru wished. But in our lives we strive to become like him again.”

“Hmm,” murmurs Bilbo, relaxing against the solid warmth of Thorin’s chest. It makes sense, in a Dwarvish sort of way. Thorin seems to have run out of his subject, but it doesn’t matter. Bilbo’s heartbeat has calmed, and he feels safe once more.

“When I was very young,” says Thorin, quieter now. “I remember my mother, singing me to sleep. The room was unlit, but her eyes were two warm lamps in the night.”

It is a strange thing to imagine, that glowing eyes in the dark might be a comfort. A reminder that Bilbo and Thorin may be similar in many ways but they are not the same. Hobbits and Dwarves are quite different creatures. Thorin sighs, his broad chest rising and falling with the exhalation.

“In the dark, your eyes are shadow, as if you are hidden from me. Sometimes when you wake in the night beside me it feels if you are not real.”

Thorin sounds almost shamed by the admission, and Bilbo has to reach up at that, stroking his husband’s hair back from his face. Thorin smiles. His eyes are mostly blue again, quite normal, though Bilbo would never describe eyes so pretty in such mundane terms.

“I’m real,” Bilbo promises. “As real as you are.”

“I know,” nods Thorin. “Though it seems an unlikely piece of luck.”

“For both of us,” agrees Bilbo, because in his wildest dreams he never imagined this, never imagined sharing a bed with the King of Erebor as his Consort Under the Mountain. All the same, despite their differences, it seems to suit them well enough. He leans up to blow out the taper again, and kisses Thorin’s cheek. Perhaps he won’t be so startled next time he wakes from a dream in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to silentstep on tumblr for the headcanon :D


	5. Aurora Ereboris (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was: Wanderer!Bilbo or A-Hobbit-in-Erebor!Bilbo seeing the northern lights for the first time.

The royal apartments had a balcony and on a mild night in early Spring it was a pleasant place to sit and smoke. Or not smoke, as the case might equally be. 

The sun had gone down most romantically not long before. Bilbo was rather enjoying his husband’s attentions when he allowed his eyes to flutter open again for a moment, and suddenly froze on the spot. 

“Thorin!” he hissed, and Thorin paused his work on the fastening of Bilbo’s trousers.

“What?”

Bilbo pointed frantically at the horizon, where a weird and eerie illumination hovered, as if hundreds or thousands of glowing spirits were approaching Erebor. It shone up from the black silhouette of hills around them into the deepening dark of the sky, a delicate haze from which long glowing fingers flickered in shades of yellowish green. The radiance spread over the long lake, rippling across its waters only a little more than in the sky.

“Thorin, that! What in the name of all that is good and growing is that?” Bilbo spluttered, scrambling to his feet and all but scampering to the edge of the balcony. He pulled his tunic back around him and stared, unable to tear his gaze away. 

Behind him he heard Thorin sigh, and the heavy thud of Dwarvish footfalls as he came to stand beside him.

“It is nothing to be afraid of. Mahal is at his forge,” said Thorin, as if the sky catching fire was no great event. 

“...at his forge?” repeated Bilbo.

Thorin smiled down at him, his peculiar Dwarvish pupils reflecting the light like mirrors. “With copper, it would seem,” he said. “Green flames.”

“I see,” said Bilbo, who didn’t, one bit. Now that he looked more carefully, the light didn’t seem to be getting closer after all. It played over the hills, flickering and twirling, as if the stars had come down to earth for a party. There were tints of blue at the edges, and gold, and the sheer incandescent beauty of it left Bilbo quite dumbfounded.

“Dear heavens,” he breathed, then turned to Thorin with a frown. “Have you seen this before?”

Thorin shrugged. “You have not?”

“I most certainly have not,” said Bilbo, beginning to laugh. He was fairly sure he couldn’t even have imagined such a thing. He wondered briefly what such an astonishing sight would look like playing over the Shire’s little gentle hills instead of Erebor’s wide, majestic plains. Aulë had probably chosen the best venue for his display, he decided.

Thorin slung a warm arm across Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling him close as he explained. “You can see it at twilight through the winter, not every night but often enough. We say it is the flames of Mahal’s forge, though doubtless your Elves would have some other explanation. Sometimes the flames are red, or blue, and sometimes they are even bright enough to be seen when the sun is still in the sky.” He paused, and exhaled slowly, his breath a plume of white smoke against the cold air. “I suppose I have seen it so often in my long years I had forgotten what a wonder it is.”

“It is,” breathed Bilbo, pressing himself against Thorin’s side, still smiling with delight. The night was growing chilly, and he was glad of his coat and warm husband. The lights on the horizon weaved between each other without pause, like a formal dance, bigger and brighter even than old Gandalf’s fireworks. “It really is.”

He feels, rather than hears, the low chuckle that shakes Thorin’s chest. His new home is strange indeed, and it seems the mountain’s miracles are far from exhausted yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For pangur-pangur :D


	6. Satyrs and Fauns (Bagginshield, somewhat furry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this FANTASTIC bit of artwork](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/137133819479/im-not-even-remotely-sorry) by the inimitable ruto
> 
> NSFW!!

The trouble was, Thorin was just too interesting for Bilbo to keep his hands away for long. There were the huge horns that curved back from his temples and then around over his ears, heavily ridged and yet not rough to the touch, as if they had been polished or oiled. And stroking those led naturally enough to Thorin’s mane of hair, thick as a curtain, wavy and dark and lit with strands of silver that caught the sunlight as Bilbo ran it through his fingers.

“Am I to be petted, like a kept animal?” asked Thorin, the corners of his mouth already twitching with amusement.

“Why not?” said Bilbo, reaching up with one hand for the corner of Thorin’s bristly jaw. He scratched gently, in exactly the spot he knew the other would love, and sure enough, within seconds one of Thorin’s hind legs was twitching with delight. “You seem to like it.”

“Well enough,” admitted Thorin, grinning widely now, arching his neck against Bilbo’s touch. He was so much larger and taller that it almost put him out of reach, so that Bilbo had little choice but to squirm closer. And that was no hardship, really, to press against the warm, furred muscle of Thorin’s belly, so different to Bilbo’s bare, freckled skin. Thorin’s legs spread further apart as he relaxed further into the caress, a rumbling sigh escaping his throat, and Bilbo could feel that too, all the way down to his own hooves. 

He let his hands slip further down, stroking along the wide expanse of Thorin’s collarbones, over broad shoulders and thick biceps, his arms stretched wide just to reach little more than half-way around Thorin’s bulk. It brought him nose-level with the fascinating golden ring that ran directly through one of Thorin’s nipples, distorting the rosy skin, and that couldn’t be ignored either. He put out his tongue to flick at it, and was rewarded with a marvellously startled gasp.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, and Bilbo sat back, beaming up at him with his most innocent smile, although not for long. Thorin reached up to catch the thin plush of Bilbo’s ear, stroking its length between fingers and thumb, and Bilbo shivered all over, all pretence at innocence abandoned at once. It was no more than he deserved, perhaps, since Thorin was quite as aware of the sensitivity of Bilbo’s ears as Bilbo was of Thorin’s pretty nipples. 

“Oh,” he sighed, stroking over Thorin’s horns again and pressing little kisses against his neck, sniffing deeply at the deep, wild scent that lay on Thorin’s skin. “Yes please.”

“You answer a question I have not asked,” said Thorin. The hand not occupied with thoroughly seducing Bilbo’s ear slid gently downwards, nonetheless, stroking over Bilbo’s short tail as it wagged with uncontrollable joy. Thorin grasped it gently in one hand, chuckling as it struggled against the restraint.

“You hardly need to,” said Bilbo, rather less dismissive and more breathless than he had intended, and Thorin was still laughing softly as his hand released Bilbo’s tail and slipped lower still, circling gently against the tiny patch of exposed flesh beneath it.

“Ohh,” groaned Bilbo, his legs barely holding him up, and threw his arms around Thorin’s neck, knowing full well his weight was nothing to Thorin. A shudder of pleasure ran through him, and now it was his own hoof that stamped against the grass, helpless to resist Thorin’s touch, and whining as it disappeared too soon.

“Sweet Bilbo,” murmured Thorin, digging his fingers into the thick shaggy fur of Bilbo’s haunches. “Up now. We should take this somewhere else.”

“Must we?” asked Bilbo plaintively, but he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. The glistening head of Thorin’s prick was already poking from its sheath, he noticed, and ran a surreptitious hand along his own semi-emergent length. The bed of leaves in their bower had no twigs or rocks in it, and there was oil there, and perhaps, indeed, it was a better idea. As Bilbo considered, Thorin was already away, and with a flick of his tail Bilbo followed, bounding lightly between the trees in Thorin’s crashing wake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all ruto's fault. All of it.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I wish I had never found out what a filiform appendage was. Research, man. It’s wrong and bad and you should just make shit up.


	7. Leaving Rivendell (bagginshield)

There ought to be tea. Normally tea isn’t much of a problem, there’s always an Elf or two within hailing distance who can bring Bilbo a cup if he feels the urge, but today he can’t spot a soul. Still, his eyesight’s pretty shocking these days. He needs Thorin, really. Equally blind, but he can shout louder.

Frodo seems anxious, which makes tea all the more urgent. He looks older, too, worn about the edges. He went away, didn’t he, on a quest of some sort. Bothersome business, but presumably it’s all dealt with now. He’s still wearing his travelling cloak, notes Bilbo, which won’t do at all. Frodo is a guest, and Bilbo is clearly a terrible host, even if he is having to do it all himself.

“Drat that old dwarf, where is he? He should be here!” exclaims Bilbo, briefly furious.

“It’s all right, Uncle,” says Frodo, patting his arm, although it’s plain to see the boy’s upset. Rightly so. It’s intolerable bad manners, that Thorin should not be here to see his own dear nephew.

“You’re a good lad, Frodo,” says Bilbo, pulling his warm wrap tighter about his shoulders and attempting to calm himself for the boy’s sake. Frodo looks a little as if he may cry. “A good lad. You know you remind me of him, a little. The eyes.” Bilbo leans in close enough to focus. He was right, Frodo’s eyes look wet. Poor lad, he’s evidently sad about something. “His are more blue. More steely. Yours are a little lighter and greener. Seems fitting, that.”

“I suppose,” says Frodo, sounding unsure. Bilbo can sympathise. He’s not sure of an awful lot of things, these days. Not least where his husband has managed to get to.

“Where is Thorin,” grumbles Bilbo. It really is too bad.

Frodo swallows nervously, as if about to deliver bad news. “He had to go ahead of us, Uncle. We’re to follow him.”

“Are we?” asks Bilbo, dumbfounded. “That’s… well, that’s a terrible idea. Did Thorin think of that? Oh, goodness, he’ll be lost by now. We’d better set off at once, perhaps we can catch him up.”

He hasn’t packed, dear me, he’ll have to put some things together at once. He’ll take his ring, of course, although he isn’t sure where it’s got to. Did he let Frodo borrow it? Something like that. The lad better have kept it safe, it’s a very useful little thing and Bilbo had found it quite hard to part with.

But he can manage without much else, although it’s not going to be as much fun as it once was. And it’s quite the wrong end of the year for adventures, there’s a nip of cold under the autumn sunshine that gets right into Bilbo’s bones. Where are they even going? Wretched dwarf. If there are any dragons involved this time, Bilbo is going to be very cross indeed. 

“I’m too old for traipsing off into the blue,” he grumbles, as Frodo helps him to his feet. “I’m 131, Frodo, you know, older than the old Took even.”

“I know, Uncle,” says Frodo gently.

“Longest lived Hobbit in history! Traipsing off again after that half-witted, stubborn Dwarf…. mind you, perhaps that’s it. Perhaps I’ve got a bit of Dwarf in me, that’s why I’ve lived so long.” He waggles his eyebrows at Frodo. “It has happened, once or twice, you know.”

“Lord Elrond has a carriage waiting for us, right now,” says Frodo, and Bilbo cackles. The poor lad, it isn’t fair to tease him so. 

“I haven’t packed,” says Bilbo firmly, as Frodo leads him past his rooms and down towards the gate.

“It’s all right, Uncle. The Elves have… we’re going to… We’re going to where Uncle Thorin is.”

Well. That’s something. Why isn’t Thorin here, though? There’s a reason, now that Bilbo comes to think of it. He can’t quite recall it, but there is some reason why Thorin isn’t here.

It’s too difficult to find the thought. Bilbo sighs, shuffling along the creamy white stone walkways. He remembers better ones, rich green marble sparkling with golden veins. He can remember that clear as day, the sunlit chambers of the royal apartments, his little garden on the terrace, feeding Thorin winter strawberries and kissing the spilled juice from his mouth.

He remembers Thorin in the Shire, too, his hair mostly silver by then, but still dreadfully handsome. And the smile of wonder on his face when they set off again for home, for the mountain, after that last birthday party. And then… what happened then? Did they make it back to the mountain? They must have. Why is he living in Rivendell now? Where exactly has Thorin gone?

It’s something of a struggle to step up into the carriage, because it’s designed for Elves, of course it is. He’s dimly aware that he’s rambling aloud as he attempts to arrange his wrap and his stick, Frodo fussing over him a little in that way people do, when you’re old. “He never did like Elves, of course, the old bigot. I’m not at all surprised he’s gone ahead, come to think of it. Dear, foolish Dwarf, I couldn’t be without him. Because, you know, after all this is over, there’s no telling what will happen. He’ll go to the halls of his Maker, but what about us, Frodo? What happens to us? I might not see him again until Arda is remade, and that… oh, I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t bear it. That’s why we can’t waste a moment, Frodo. Never.” He bangs his stick against the wooden floor. “Come along, let’s be off.”

“Yes, Uncle,” says Frodo, and he hasn’t quite the warm, solid heat of Thorin, but his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder is some comfort. There’s a jingling sound as the carriage begins to move away. 

He’ll see Thorin again soon. Well, good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, a sad thing happened! I'm so sorry! If it helps... the Valar have tended to look generously upon mixed marriages in the past... it's entirely possible that Bilbo will join Thorin again. :3


	8. I have... AMNESIA!  (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from the prompt: what if Bilbo or Thorin had amnesia after the Battle of Five Armies and woke up convinced they were courting the other?

Bilbo wakes without the least idea where he is. It’s somewhere quite dimly lit, thank the heavens, since his head is throbbing something awful, but it’s also cavernous and unfamiliar and there are people moving about who look slightly too large and too hairy to be Shire folk.

He groans and turns his head sideways, too wretched to do much else. Somewhere near to him a deep, rough voice cries “Oin! Master Baggins wakes!”

He opens his eyes again at the sound of his name, and sees another bed near to his own, in which is propped a large Dwarf, his chest wrapped in bandages, with black hair and an oddly short beard. He is staring at Bilbo most intently, and is the first thing in this place that seems even a bit familiar. Bilbo returns his stare until another Dwarf steps in front of him.

“Master Baggins!” says the new Dwarf, sounding delighted. He looks much more as a Dwarf ought, all salt-and-pepper hair and peculiar braids, although Bilbo has never seen him before in his life. “How are you feeling?”

“Rotten,” says Bilbo irritably. “Are you the healer, then? Where am I? What on the good green earth has happened?”

The Dwarf looks taken aback. “I am Oin, Master Baggins. I am indeed a healer, and you are under the mountain, in my care. We found you after the battle, passed out on the ice beside Thorin.”

“Thorin,” repeats Bilbo, and is glad to find the word familiar to his tongue. He looks over at the next bed again, where he is still being watched like a hawk. “Thorin,” he says thoughtfully, then turns to the Dwarf called Oin again. “Can I get up? Or could you move our beds a bit nearer, perhaps?”

“Aye,” says Oin, eyebrows raised, and signs to one of the many Dwarves nearby. There’s an ear-splitting noise of scraping stone as the bed is pushed into place, hard up against Thorin’s, which is somewhat closer than Bilbo had anticipated. Not that he’s complaining.

Thorin is half-sitting, resting against several pillows, and clearly not able to move much. Bilbo reaches instinctively to take his hand, and something clicks in his mind as he does so. “You… I thought you died,” he breathes, horrified. “I held your hand like this, and I thought you were dying!”

“As did I,” admits the Dwarf. He glances up to Oin, but Bilbo doesn’t look to see why, too engrossed in Thorin’s hand. He presses the warmth of Thorin’s palm against his cheek, large enough to cover half his face, and kisses the warm, rough skin. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” says Bilbo, hardly able to bear even the memory. He kisses Thorin’s hand again, but it’s not enough, and he has to lean across to Thorin’s mouth. It’s a bristly sort of kiss, and only chaste, but Bilbo presses his lips to Thorin’s for a long while, quite unable to pull away. 

“Bilbo?” asks Thorin, looking bewildered for some reason, and it’s such a peculiar expression that Bilbo has to laugh.

“I know you,” he explains. “I have no idea where I am or what a Hobbit was doing in a battle, but I know you. You’re Thorin, Thorin Oakleaf, and we are...” he pauses, “I don’t think we’re married, yet, so we must be courting? Is that right? And I love you, I love you desperately, beyond anything in the world, and you must never, ever scare me like that again.”

“Oh,” says Thorin, his bewilderment melting into something impossibly soft and lovely, so that Bilbo has to kiss him once more. Behind him he hears Oin making some sort of snorting noise.

“Well, it’s a start,” grumbles Oin. “I shall have some questions for you later, Master Baggins, but first we must get you fed. You’ve been out a few days and if I know Hobbits, I’d guess you’re hungry.”

\--

It’s a day or so later, well-fed, and feeling much restored, that Bilbo wakes before dawn with his head tucked against Thorin’s broad shoulder, one large Dwarfish arm slung over his back. He blinks a few times and wonders how best to extricate himself, but it’s already too late.

“Good. Goodness. Good morning,” he says, looking up into the eyes of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and King under the Mountain, who proceeds to smile widely and kiss him, cupping his jaw in one hand with remarkable tenderness. Which is undeniably pleasant and only slightly terrifying.

“A very good morning, though an early one,” murmurs Thorin, burying his nose in Bilbo’s hair, and oh, the whisper of his breath against Bilbo’s ear is distracting. “Is something wrong, _Ghivashel_?”

“I don’t, well. Um. It might be?” stammers Bilbo, scrunching his eyes shut. “I mean, it’s only that, the other day, when I woke up first, I just, the thing is, we aren’t, or rather weren’t, actually courting, not really, are we?”

He feels Thorin freeze, at that, and when he dares to peep there’s a cold, blank look on the King’s face. “No,” says Thorin at length, and his hand drops away. He sighs. “I will not hold you to anything you have said, Master Baggins, do not concern yourself.”

“Right,” agrees Bilbo, a little too readily, feeling his heart sink right down to the pit of his belly. He sniffs. “Even if… even if I wanted you to?” he asks.

Thorin’s gaze slides back to his own. “Do you?”

“Yes,” says Bilbo, unable to keep some annoyance from his voice, because isn’t that obvious? “Of course I do. There was a reason, you know, that I thought we were courting when I woke up. And why you were the only thing I still recognised. I’m in love with you. I have been for an age, you clothead.”

Thorin looks thunderstruck, and so painfully hopeful it would be enough to melt anyone’s heart. “Even now, when you remember... what I have done?”

Bilbo hums, not wanting to dismiss that too quickly. “Yes,” he says. “Even then. Don’t do it again, though.”

“I shall not,” says Thorin, utterly serious, like the great dramatic handsome fool he is.

“Good,” Bilbo tells him fondly, and leans up for the kiss they didn’t finish earlier. It’s a splendid one, definitely worth finishing. Thorin is still too injured for much more than this, but he’s surprisingly good at it, the heat of his tongue against Bilbo’s cautious at first then increasingly demanding. Bilbo could lose his heart to kisses like that, if he hadn’t already.

“Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo,” says Thorin suddenly, pushing him away just a little. Thorin’s mouth is reddened, and his pupils are wide in his wonderful, pretty eyes. “Do you accept my courtship? Will you marry me?”

What a question. Whilst Bilbo is still attempting to marshall speech, an unexpected pillow sails across the Infirmary from the bed next-but-one to theirs, breaking the moment rather neatly, and a voice follows it.

“It’s darker than my own arsehole yet, will you two shut up?”

Bilbo reaches down to rescue the pillow from the end of their beds, and flings it back with deadly accuracy, noting with satisfaction that it lands squarely in Kili’s face. He recognises that voice perfectly now. “Mind your language, Kili!”

There’s a second’s pause before the response comes, somewhat muffled. “Mister Boggins? You remember my name?”

“More than you can manage for me! I think if I’m going to marry your uncle you ought to at least try to get it right.”

The bed nearest them stirs at that, and a sleep-rumpled Fili pokes his head out from the blankets. “You’re going to marry Uncle? Really, for real now?”

“I am,” says Bilbo Baggins. “I really am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TECHNICALLY this one is just over 1,000 words but I don't think it merits its own work. :3
> 
> My thanks to [alkjira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira) for the prompt!


	9. A First Kiss (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As prompted by [Beautyagegoodnesssize](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautyagegoodnesssize) for a kisses meme on Tumblr. :)

Bilbo sits at his desk, staring at nothing and chewing the tip of his quill, a nasty habit from childhood that he has never quite overcome. This thing, whatever it is, between him and Thorin is becoming too awkward to ignore, and lacking the courage to face the King directly, Bilbo has decided to write a letter. Except the letter is refusing to be written. So far he has “Dear Thorin” and nothing else.

With care and deliberation Bilbo adds a comma after the two words, and then ruins everything when a knock comes at his door and he jumps so hard that ink splatters across the parchment.

“Come in, come in,” Bilbo snarls, crumpling the page in one hand and flinging it viciously into a corner. He hears a very familiar cough behind him and turns to find Thorin Oakenshield standing just inside the door, looking very much like a fauntling who’s broken his mother’s best teapot.

The door remains ajar, and from behind it Bilbo can just see several hairy faces peeking. At a guess, it looks like Dwalin, and Kili perhaps? Someone whispers “Go ON,” and Thorin frowns at his feet.

“Can I help you with anything?” asks Bilbo. Something very peculiar is going on here. Thorin takes a deep breath, steps forward, and very gingerly takes Bilbo’s hands in his own, which is a first. They are large and calloused and strong and extremely warm, Bilbo notes.

“You can,” says Thorin. "Bilbo,“ he says, and stops. "I wish,” he says, and stops again.

“Just say it!” hisses a voice from the doorway, and Thorin scowls so furiously Bilbo has to resist the urge to take a step backwards.

“I seek to court you,” he snaps, and the sentiment and tone are so at odds that it takes a moment to understand.

“To court me? As in, marriage? Do you love me?” splutters Bilbo, and Thorin gazes down at him suddenly a great deal less angry and rather more lost-looking.

“I do,” he says.

“Yes,” says Bilbo at once, because this is not an opportunity to be missed. "Yes, you may, because I love you too, and I was actually just trying to write you a letter about it, as it happens, but I suppose there’s no need now, although I could still write it if you want me to…"

He can hear cheering outside the door and the rushing of blood in his ears, but he can’t hear his own voice, since Thorin has stopped his chatter with a kiss, and it is quite the best thing that has ever happened.


	10. A Naughty/Reunion Kiss (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As prompted by MithrilBikini on Tumblr for a kisses meme. This one has ART, too!
> 
> [MithrilBikini's version](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/post/140009281502/based-on-ahiddenkittys-ficlet-i-may-have-taken)
> 
> [airbornonawind's version (nsfw)](http://airbornonawind.tumblr.com/post/139691168227/okay-5-or-16-for-bagginshield-your-choice)
> 
> SO GOOD AND I AM STILL FLAILING OVER BOTH OF THEM >:D

Bilbo’s attire is somewhat out of the ordinary when he comes to greet Thorin at the gates of Erebor. Usually the hobbit does not wear many furs, but today the coat he wears has a thick, fluffy trim at the cuffs, hem, and across the shoulders. It reaches almost to the floor, and looks very warm indeed, but Bilbo has it buttoned up right under his chin and all the knotted braid fastenings are closed, right down past Bilbo’s knees. He looks rather flushed, as anyone might, wearing such a coat on a mild Spring morning.

“Are you well?” asks Thorin quietly, taking his hand as they walk. He has been away for two days, and perhaps Bilbo has taken sick in that time. Hobbits have a tendency to catch cold more often than Dwarves.

“Quite well, yes,” grins Bilbo, and if his eyes seem a little bright, he remains full of energy, almost dragging Thorin through the corridors towards their chambers. "And you? Not too exhausted by your trip?“

“No,” says Thorin, his suspicions roused now. He speeds his own steps until they reach the large doors and closes them behind him with a grin of his own. 

“We have a phrase in the Shire,” says Bilbo, far too inconsequentially, fiddling with the clasps of his enormous coat. "Fur coat and no bloomers, have you heard it?“

"I have not…” begins Thorin, and stops. Under the coat is Bilbo’s skin. Bare skin. He is wearing nothing at all underneath. He met Thorin at the gates, before all of their people, in naught but this. The coat hangs open now, framing the delicious soft curves of his body, and Thorin’s mouth is too dry to speak. He can only gape as Bilbo winds arms around his neck and presses close, kissing him with shameless hunger. 

“Welcome home,” Bilbo says smugly, and there the conversation ends.


	11. Catching the other before they fall (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [Emsiecat](emsiecat.tumblr.com)'s prompt in the Sweet Moments meme on Tumblr.

Thorin was quite capable of merriment, beneath his gruff and kingly appearance. He was particularly fond of the most appalling puns, so bad that even Bilbo could not help but groan at them.

Yet sometimes his good humour seemed simply out of reach. There were days when he held the crown in his hands a moment too long before placing it on his head, or frowned at his paperwork more deeply than usual. On such days Bilbo had learned to appear with two mugs of steaming tea, perhaps to talk inconsequentially about some happy, amusing thing that had caught his eye that day, and take Thorin’s hand gently in his own to kiss the tip of each finger. Sometimes the chatter was the necessary ingredient, and sometimes silence worked better. Sometimes the tea would go cold, untasted. Still, the method was useful enough, and so far, Bilbo had not yet failed to bring back his husband’s smile, and that was worth any trouble.

If asked, Bilbo would insist that he had no similar needs. All the same, the weight of the ring in his pocket was never so heavy as when a knock came at his door in the middle of some particularly fascinating page. It was no great matter to graciously excuse himself from formal receptions pleading tiredness, when in fact he only sought the company of his desk and his books. However, once he began to take too many meals in his rooms, Thorin would observe him thoughtfully, and within a week or so some errand tended to arise that required a trip to Dale. Often, apparently by chance, some Professor of Ancient Dalish or similar notary would be visiting, and instead of grumbling at the imposition Bilbo would return enlivened by it, babbling away delightedly about some new interpretation of a previously incomprehensible text. It did him good, he knew it, and thank heavens for Thorin knowing so too.


	12. A Hope We Don’t Get Caught Kiss (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Pangur-pangur](pangur-pangur.tumblr.com)'s prompt in the Sweet Moments meme on Tumblr

Thorin’s hand lands silent and heavy on Bilbo’s shoulder as they walk, stopping him in his tracks whilst the guards march on ahead unwittingly without them.

“What is it?” asks Bilbo in an anxious whisper. Thorin doesn’t answer, tugging them both behind a curtain where there is just (barely) enough room to hide. His husband gazes down at him with terrible seriousness before kissing Bilbo as fiercely and hungrily as if they hadn’t left their chambers mere moments before. It’s possessive and unexpected and rather wonderful.

“Not that I mind, but…” pants Bilbo, pulling away as soon as he’s able. Well, as soon as he feels able, which is perhaps a little longer. "Aren’t we meant to be meeting Thranduil?“

"You are wearing your jewellery,” growls Thorin, mouthing his way down Bilbo’s neck. "It looks well on you.“

Bilbo has to laugh, if somewhat breathlessly. "I shall still be wearing it all after this meeting, you old fool.” He dares twiddle the bead at the end of his braid in what he hopes is a seductive manner. It seems to work. "If you like, I could keep it on… after I take off everything else?“

The look of helpless lust on Thorin’s face is rather marvellous. It’s a great shame Balin choses that moment to sweep the curtain aside.

"What are… oh, Durin’s beard,” sighs Balin. "Go. Go to the meeting. We can discuss this later.’


	13. Cuddling (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous prompt from the Sweet Moments meme on Tumblr
> 
> Contains bonus Frodo mentions! :)

Frodo strolled happily down Bagshot Row towards the Gamgee’s house with his two uncles waving him off from the doorstep of Bag End. The scene was somewhat hard to reconcile with the furious screaming that had echoed through the smial not half an hour before.

“You’re terribly good with him, you know,” said Bilbo wryly as they turned back into the house. “It was very impressive.”

“I have practice,” shrugged Thorin, unwilling to take praise where it was undeserved. He had not done much more than offer the child a hug instead of an argument, after all.

“I suppose,” sighed Bilbo. He wandered back into the kitchen, reaching for the kettle as if by instinct and setting it over the fire. It wasn’t particularly low, but Bilbo chose to give it a somewhat savage stir with the poker nonetheless. “I’m sure I wasn’t such a troublemaker at Frodo’s age.”

Thorin paused, weighing his words carefully before he spoke. “He is young, and an orphan besides. I think Fili and Kili were not much more grown than he when they lost their father. At such an age, to have your heart so broken - it becomes no simple thing to ask for the comfort you need.”

“True enough,” said Bilbo. He stayed where he was beside the fire, staring into it forlornly as it crackled and popped. “You’d think I would know that. I was grown when my own parents passed and it was hard enough then, yet it doesn’t seem to help me with Frodo. Goodness know what I’d do without your help.”

“You would manage,” said Thorin, with absolute confidence, setting his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders and turning him around. He had seen it with his own eyes more than once: Bilbo Baggins could manage anything he set his clever mind to.

“Oh, don’t,” laughed Bilbo, but when he looked up his eyes were shiny. “I couldn’t lose you too! Too many deaths already, far too many, don’t you go joining them.” Without warning he threw his arms around Thorin and squeezed him tightly, enough to startle a grunt from the old Dwarf.

“I will not,” Thorin assured him, wrapping his own arms about Bilbo in return, resting his cheek against his husband’s silvering curls and stroking their softness with one hand. Bilbo’s warm, yielding weight against him was familiar and always welcome. It wasn’t always easy to say in words, but he hoped, perhaps, that his husband could feel some of the love that thrummed in Thorin’s veins. It was something that could survive dragons, and madness, and even angry tween Hobbits.

They stood there together until the kettle began to whistle and Bilbo pushed him off, bustling about again to make the tea.

“I know why you’re better with Frodo,” said Bilbo, handing Thorin his mug. “You’ve got a secret weapon.”

“I have?” asked Thorin in surprise.

Bilbo sat back, waggling an admonishing teaspoon at Thorin, his usual sparkle returned. “It’s your particularly marvellous hugs.”


	14. of Kings and Kittens (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approximately 84 years ago, I asked for some prompts, and one of them was the lovely [puddeneen](puddeneen.tumblr.com), who asked “bard and/or the bardlings visiting the erebor of the cat whisperer ‘verse?”
> 
> So here is some more of[Cat Whisperer Bilbo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5770156) from the early days of Reclaimed Erebor, also featuring Heather (the uncrowned Queen Under the Mountain) and a smidgen of my own Dwarf Gender headcanon.

“Let’s just go over it again, shall we?” asked Bilbo, surreptitiously picking cat hair off the shoulder of Thorin’s cloak.

“King Bard,” grumbled Thorin, who was evidently tired and in a truly foul mood. “Princess Sigrid, Prince Bain and Prince Tilda.”

“Princess Tilda,” corrected Bilbo, not for the first time. “She’ll be very upset if you get it wrong.”

“But he - she is so young!” said Thorin irritably. “How can they know?”

Bilbo sighed. “On a point of principle you may even be right, Thorin, but these are Men, and now is not the time to discuss it. Besides, even King Bard is younger than me.”

“Children,” muttered Thorin, stomping through the corridors more as if going to war than welcoming visitors. Heather weaved along behind him, complaining in loud miaows, most upset to have been turfed from his lap when the late arrival of their guests had been announced. “They are all children, and I must treat with them as adults grown.” 

“You like children,” said Bilbo soothingly. It earned him the merest ghost of a smile.

King Thorin II was not finding it altogether easy to adapt to the politics of his new role. There had been little need in his life until recently for charm, and whilst he was skilled enough in negotiation, his small talk left rather a lot to be desired. Bilbo had hoped that inviting Bard’s family along for a visit to new Erebor would make things easier, a little less formal. Now he was wondering if it had been the right thing to do after all.

–

The doors were swung open by two guards and the Men within whirled around as if they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Bard and his son both stood to attention at once, while the older girl was whispering fiercely in her smaller sister’s ear. The little girl looked extremely sleepy, poor thing. It was almost certainly past her bedtime.

“Welcome to the Kingdom of Erebor,” said Thorin, and Bard bowed in greeting. “I am sure you are tired from your journey. I am told dinner has been prepared for you all, if you are hungry, and of course your rooms await.”

“Thank you, King Thorin,” said Bard.

One by one the children echoed their father’s words, Thorin nodded his acknowledgement, and the room fell into awkward silence. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“You’re very welcome,” he said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable, and if there’s anything else you need, just say the word.”

“Look,” said the littlest girl suddenly, her eyes wide as she stared at something behind Bilbo. 

Bilbo turned to find out what had caught the girl’s attention, and discovered Heather sitting primly behind him, tail tucked neatly around her paws, having followed them into the room. Bilbo reached down to rub between her ears, remembering how charmed Bard’s children had been with his cats back in Laketown. 

“Your cat is beautiful,” said Tilda, with the utmost sincerity of the very young.

“Her name is Heather,” said Bilbo, smiling.

Thorin grumbled something that might have been “Ratsbane,” and Bilbo graciously elected to ignore it. He had an idea, and fished a ribbon from his pocket. 

“She likes chasing that,” he said, handing it to the older girl, Sigrid, as he made his way over to a guard by the door. Thorin raised his eyebrows, but he would find out soon enough, and the guard was sent off silently on Bilbo’s errand.

“Ah, she’s so clever!” said Tilda, clapping her hands as her sister waved the ribbon and Heather deftly plucked it out of the air.

“Look at her claws,” said Bain with glee. “And those teeth!”

Thorin poured a cup of wine for himself, and another for Bard, passing it across with a more sincere smile than before. They watched the children play happily with Heather and the ribbon in rather more companionable silence. 

“She’s a nimble beast,” said Bard at last.

“She is, and an excellent ratcatcher,” nodded Bilbo, always happy to talk about his cats. “She had kittens 3 months ago, and they show every sign of following in their eminent mother’s footsteps. Ah, here we are,” he said, turning as the guard returned with a large wicker basket.

It was set on the floor before the fireplace and at its appearance, Heather immediately lost interest in the ribbon. Bilbo walked over to open it and drew out a small, mewing kitten in each hand, to a chorus of soft exclamations from the children. “There are three. I wonder if you might accept them as a gift to your children, King Bard?”

King Bard simply laughed, well aware he had not the least chance of refusing. “By all means,” he grinned, and Bilbo handed the first kitten to the eldest daughter.

“This one’s a girl,” he said, and Sigrid took it from him eagerly.

“Her eyes are so pretty!” she said. “I shall call her Emerald.”

Bilbo did not miss the flash of approval that crossed Thorin’s face, and to his relief nor did Bain, who looked faintly panicked as he took his own kitten. Its eyes were also green, and its fur black. 

“I, mine, er,” stuttered the boy, before his face lit up. “I shall call mine Jet!”

Thorin nodded approvingly, and beside him Bard seemed to glow with pride.

“And mine shall be… Prince Fluffybritches,” announced Tilda happily, cuddling her tabby kitten close. “And Fluffy for short.”

Thorin chuckled quietly, and Bilbo couldn’t help but join in. Soon the whole room was laughing, including Tilda, although she didn’t seem to quite understand the joke. Bilbo felt his shoulders unknotting at last and silently congratulated himself. With any luck, things might go a touch more smoothly now.


	15. Is that what I think it is? (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...No, Thorin, it isn't.
> 
> I found this Ceremonial Mace in a local museum and my digusting, filthy mind went to places that had no excuse whatsoever. Implied Filth. :D
> 
>  

Shortly after Thorin arrived in the Shire and all was happily resolved, there arose the issue of space. Bag End was spacious, but it could hardly compare to the great halls Thorin had left behind, and Bilbo was anxious that he should feel as much at home as possible. It was decided that one of the spare bedrooms might reasonably be repurposed into a workshop and study, so that Thorin might have privacy when he required it, and thus the two of them began clearing room. Any number of mathoms appeared to have hidden and multiplied in the dusty cupboards and under the bed, so that it was more than a full day’s work only to fetch them all out.

Bilbo had gone to make another fresh pot of tea, returning with it, some milk, and a few biscuits on a tray to find Thorin frozen to the spot beside the window. He was holding Great-Uncle Largo’s ceremonial mace up to the light and boggling at it in wonder.

It was an elegant bit of craftsmanship, certainly. About a foot long and half as much in diameter, carved from heavy, close-grained boxwood with thick polished ridges spiraling down three-quarters of its length, then a raised jewel-studded band, and a pattern of something like scales for the remaining length. At the base was a decorative brass band, and below that, a narrower handle for ease of use.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin. “Is this… what I think it is?”

“I suppose so,” said Bilbo, pouring tea. It was pretty clearly a mace, after all. “It belonged to my Great Uncle Largo. It’s been in the family a while, though I don’t think anyone will have used it for many years now. I haven’t, although goodness knows I’ve been tempted once or twice.” He sipped his tea and thought of the Sackville-Bagginses with a grimace.

“It is… the size of my arm,” said Thorin, blinking rapidly and apparently aghast.

Bilbo huffed. “Well, exactly. Hobbits don’t have such big muscular arms and fists as Dwarves, you know. A bit extra never hurts.”

“Never hurts?” spluttered Thorin, and Bilbo laughed.

“True enough, that is rather the point, isn’t it. Something that fancy and that size would be mostly ceremonial, but it must have been used too. You’d definitely feel it!”

Thorin took his tea absently, his eyes still fixed on the mace in horror. A suspicion rose in Bilbo’s mind, and he could not be sure they were not somehow at cross purposes. “It’s a mace, Thorin. In the Shire we have the Bounders, law-keeper Hobbits, and they carry these to show their office and, if necessary, defend themselves.”

There was silence for a moment before Thorin’s whole body appeared to sag with relief. He very nearly spilled his tea.

“I see,” he said, smiling.

“What on earth did you think it was?” asked Bilbo curiously, reaching out to take it himself. He looked at the mace curiously. It was long, and thick, and hard, and as he ran a hand over the ridged surface suddenly his eyes widened in horror. “Oh! You didn’t?”

The remaining contents of the cupboard appeared to have become intensely interesting. So interesting that Thorin, busy investigating, did not turn around, although even from behind Bilbo could see his funny round ears had turned bright scarlet. “You didn’t,” gasped Bilbo, unable to contain his laughter. “Oh, goodness, Thorin! It’s… well, it’s the size of your arm!”

Thorin grumbled something inaudible and quite possibly very ungracious, and Bilbo took a step closer, wrapping his arms around Thorin’s waist and resting his cheek against that broad back. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, still chuckling. “Good gracious. No wonder you looked shocked.”

Thorin half-turned, and he was indeed blushing to the roots of his hair. “I feel foolish,” he muttered, though he looked as if a smile was not far away.

“Oh, but you shouldn’t,” said Bilbo. “I know you Dwarves and your obsession with making everything giant-sized. I bet there are bigger ones that that back in Erebor. I’m afraid my humble collection will look quite meagre in comparison.”

“Your…?” asked Thorin after a moment, and Bilbo grinned at him. There was a small chest in the corner of his bedroom whose contents had whiled away many lonely hours. Perhaps it was about time he shared them with his new husband.

“Would you like to see?” he asked. “I think we’ve earned ourselves a short break, don’t you?”


	16. How Not to Flirt with a Dwarf King (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found on the [Imagine Hobbit](http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com) tumblr: [Imagine Bilbo getting drunk in Rivendell and hitting on Thorin.](http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/143179553974/imagine-bilbo-getting-drunk-in-rivendell-and)
> 
> ...in which Bilbo is not quite as smooth as he thinks he is.

“It’s excellent, you leather-tongued old goat. It’s up there with Old Winyards, and you wouldn’t hear me say that often,” insisted Master Baggins, waggling an irate finger under Gloin’s nose. Most of the company had retired to their bedrolls when the food ran out, complaining none too quietly about the inedible vegetables and foul wine, so that now there were only Thorin, the sons of Fundin, and Gloin remaining awake, seated about a dwindling campfire of Elven furniture. 

And a very, very drunken Halfling, who was perhaps half-awake at best.

“Perhaps it is not to Gloin’s taste,” said Balin, sniffing at his own cup. “Nor mine, truth be told. I cannot believe these Elves have no brewers.”

“They do. They serve us wine because they know our preference is for ale. The same reason why they served us vegetables at dinner,” said Thorin, though privately he agreed with the Halfling. He had always preferred wine, himself, and this was better stuff than he had tasted in decades.

“That’sh hardly fair!” exclaimed Bilbo, rounding on Thorin. He paused for a moment, replaying the words in his head, and cleared his throat deliberately. “That’s hardly fair,” he said again, more slowly, enunciating with careful precision. “Lord Elrond didn’t know we were coming for dinner, did he.”

Thorin grunted, unwilling to concede the point but with no desire to be the next object of Mr Baggins’ fury. For such a small, soft creature, he seemed endlessly ready to pick a fight. The lack of response appeared to deflate Mr Baggins somewhat, and he turned back to his drink. Gloin and Balin exchanged a small smile, although what was amusing, Thorin could not see.

“Make a habit of it, you lot. Turning up uninvited,” muttered Mr Baggins, and giggled.

“Shall we never hear the end of that matter?” asked Thorin irritatably. “It was the Wizard’s doing, not our own.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Mr Baggins, flapping a hand. “Still, I hope next time I entertain a King of Dwarves I shall have a bit of notice, so I can serve him something better than leftover soup.” 

The Halfling glanced across then, over the rim of his cup, and if Thorin had not known better he could have sworn Mr Baggins winked.

“You fed us all, and better than we have eaten here,” growled Dwalin from the shadows. “If our King cannot find his way in the Shire it is no wonder there was little left by the time he joined us.”

Thorin glared at the toecaps of his boots while his companions chuckled. From the corner of his eye he saw a small bare hand descend on the leather gauntlet of his arm, and looked up in surprise to find Mr Baggins standing beside him. 

“I suppose we’ll never hear the end of that one, either,” he said, oddly fierce. “Perhaps I should wake Bofur, he might know a few new jokes.”

“Peace, Mr Baggins!” chuckled Gloin. “If you know a joke or two, pray tell them.”

Mr Baggins frowned, swaying slightly on his remarkable feet, and then a disconcertingly sly expression crossed his face. “All right. What’s the difference between a hunger for dinner and a hunger for bed?”

The remaining company frowned. Dwarves were the longest-lived of the mortal races, and it was a rare joke that none of them had heard before, but at length Gloin conceded. “I don’t know. What?”

“Where you put the cucumber,” replied the Halfling loftily, unable to entirely suppress his grin.

There was a moment’s dumbfounded silence before Dwalin burst out into obscenely loud guffaws, followed swiftly by Balin and Gloin. Keen to maintain at least the semblance of his dignity, Thorin managed not to join them, frowning instead as he felt the heat climb his cheeks. Unfortunately, it turned out not to be his wisest move.

“Oh dear, Thorin, didn’t you get it?” asked Mr Baggins merrily. He moved nearer still, standing now between Thorin’s knees, so that he had to look up to meet the Halfling’s eyes. “I could explain it to you.”

Thorin was about to protest, when Mr Baggins spoke again. “Or I could show you,” he said, still smiling, though his voice was low and eyes dark. It seemed the wine had gone to Thorin’s head, since he could not find a thing to say in response.

“Goodness, it’s late!” announced Balin cheerfully. “I believe it’s past my bedtime. Yours too, brother, come along.”

“Bedtime?” said Mr Baggins, swaying, if anything, closer to Thorin, until he was leaning slightly against Thorin’s jerkin. He was still grinning, leaning his head ever closer to Thorin’s own. “Is that so.” 

“Indeed,” said Thorin, cursing internally as his voice came out closer to a squawk than he would have liked. He rose to his feet with sufficient speed to make the Halfling stagger back instinctively, and took some satisfaction in it. “Goodnight, Mr Baggins.”

“Goodnight,” said Mr Baggins, sounding disappointed. “No demonstrations, then? You could at least walk me to my room.”

“It lies in that direction,” said Thorin firmly, pointing after Balin’s retreating back without the least idea whether it was true or not. He turned away, striding to his own rooms as swiftly as he could without breaking into a run.

–

They left the following day, Mr Baggins lagging at the back of their caravan, telling anyone who would listen what a shame it was to leave such hospitality behind. The pallor of his skin and faint raw stink of stale wine rising from him told a different story, however, and more than once Thorin saw him squeeze his eyes shut and groan quietly to himself.

“Are you well, Burglar?” asked Thorin quietly, once Mr Baggins had caught up.

“Quite well, thank you,” sniffed Mr Baggins, against all the evidence, then glanced about himself cautiously. “Um. Could I ask you something? I’m afraid that wine was a little stronger than I’m used to. As shameful as it is to admit, I don’t fully recollect the end of the evening, and I’m just hoping… well, I know you stayed up late as well, and I’m hoping I didn’t cause any offence to anyone. Did I?”

Thorin smiled wryly to himself, hidden in the fall of his hair. “You did not. You told a joke about a cucumber, however.”

Mr Baggins’ face turned, if possible, another shade paler. “I didn’t. Oh dear. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It matters not,” said Thorin. “Take care you do not fall behind. We have many miles to cover today.”

Not waiting for an answer, he strode forward to the head of his company once more, relieved beyond measure. And yet. A little disappointed too, perhaps. Just a little.


	17. An Unexpected Anniversary (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the [An Unexpected Anniversary](http://anunexpectedanniversary.tumblr.com/) prompt fest on Tumblr! 
> 
> Be warned, this one's pretty rude, and the cause of those BDSM tags. :3

An Unexpected Anniversary

Bilbo had thought Thorin Oakenshield unfairly handsome even from the first, and the view before him was ample proof that he had been correct. Bathed in warm candlelight, Thorin knelt on their bed, his wrists secured behind his back and his clothes discarded on the floor. The position threw his strong shoulders and gloriously broad chest into prominence, and his dark lashes fluttered over his cheeks as Bilbo kissed him thoroughly.

The knocking at the front door barely even registered at first.

Shooting an evil glare at the door, Bilbo shuffled back a little, beginning to kiss his way downwards and smiling to himself as Thorin groaned. They had all evening to play, and Bilbo was in no hurry. Soon enough he was licking around the base of Thorin’s cock, pressing whisper-soft kisses to the head, until his husband was almost whimpering with need. 

The knocking grew louder, and more insistent, and eventually it was impossible to ignore it any longer.

“That’s it!” snapped Bilbo, leaping to his feet and seizing his dressing-gown. 

“Bilbo?” called Thorin after him, still tied. “What… where are you going?”

“I’m going to tell whoever that is to fuck off!” yelled Bilbo, stamping down the hallway, tying the belt of his gown as he went, and wrenched open the front door.

He didn’t.

It was probably a bad idea to tell Dwalin, son of Fundin, to fuck off under any circumstances. Even when he randomly appeared on your doorstep at a time when you were really very much not receiving visitors.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service,” said Dwalin, and bowed.

“My goodness,” stammered Bilbo. “Er. Are you staying nearby?”

“No,” said Dwalin, staring incredulously as if Bilbo had gone soft-headed, and shouldered his way into the smial. There was something very familiar about the whole thing, though Bilbo had no time to think why.

Luckily, the master bedroom of Bag End lay around a corner, and he was able to chivvy Dwalin into the kitchen before the Dwarf went glancing through any doorways. 

“Help yourself,” said Bilbo, dumping a plateful of scones on the table. “Excuse me a moment.”

Bilbo slammed the bedroom door behind him. He rushed to untie a confused and somewhat wilted Thorin as quickly as he could. 

“Dwalin’s here!” hissed Bilbo. “I don’t know why but you need to get rid of him!”

For a moment Thorin looked so thunderous Bilbo was afraid he would storm into the kitchen still bollock-naked to rage at his former Master of Arms. Instead he waved away the dressing-gown Bilbo offered and began to pull on his britches, just dragging a shirt over his head when a knock came at the door again. Their eyes met, and Bilbo could not suppress a sense of rising dread.

“I’ll get that,” he sighed. 

He opened the door to find Balin, beaming widely. “Bilbo!” cried the old Dwarf delightedly, before taking in his state of dress. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes,” lied Bilbo, since absolutely nothing was all right. Why could these ill-mannered Dwarves never send a letter ahead to warn one? “It’s lovely to see you. Only rather unexpected…” he trailed off, and cogs began to turn in his brain. The date. The anniversary. That time, long ago, when the Company of Thorin Oakenshield rocked up uninvited to his door and whisked him off on an extremely foolhardy and dangerous adventure. He peered out behind Balin and sure enough, another two figures, one blonde and one dark, were approaching up the road.

Balin followed Bilbo’s gaze, and grinned. “Oh yes,” he chuckled. “We shall all be here shortly.”

“Good,” said Bilbo, thinking quickly. “You’re rather late, is all. Tea was at four, you know, I distinctly remember telling you.”

“Indeed, Bilbo. My apologies,” said Balin. The old Dwarf’s eyes twinkled in a way that left no doubt he had not been remotely taken in by Bilbo’s excuse. He ambled indoors, heading for the kitchen, where his brother greeted him with a joyous headbutt.

Thorin pulled Bilbo aside. “It is the anniversary,” he muttered, and Bilbo nodded, cutting him off. 

“Yes, thank you, I realise that now. Silly to have forgotten, really. Can you help these two plate things up before they make too much mess of my pantry? I should go and put some clothes on.”

Not waiting for an answer, Bilbo retreated to their bedroom, eyeing the discarded leather restraints on the pillow with regret.

“Confusticate and bebother these dwarves,” he muttered, as he buttoned up a shirt. 

He could hear the banging of doors and merry shouting from the corridor, so evidently the Company was mostly assembled. They were dear friends, every one of them, and it would undoubtedly be good to see them all again. Bilbo sighed, casting his mind back to that first evening. It seemed the Dwarves had not changed much, with one important exception. The Thorin who had smirked and called his host a grocer was now a far more pleasant fellow, and Bilbo sniggered, remembering exactly how outraged he had been at his husband’s manners. Even whilst struck by Thorin’s handsomeness, Bilbo had itched to take him down a peg or two.

Now there was an idea, thought Bilbo, fastening his suspenders and tidying the leather cuffs away. A little re-enactment, with a few important differences. That sounded like a marvellous game, so good he could hardly believe he hadn’t thought of it before. A pity they’d had to call a halt this evening, but tomorrow night would do just as well, and it gave him a day to plan out the details. It would be well worth the interruption, thought Bilbo with satisfaction, idly imagining a suitably chastened Thorin Oakenshield tied to his bed and begging for release. 

With a wide smile on his face, Bilbo headed for the kitchen, to welcome the Company of Thorin Oakenshield to Bag End once more.


	18. The Boyfriend Shirt Trope (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wearing Thorin's tunic... what's not to like?!
> 
> Many, many thanks to [Lia Sangria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/liasangria) for the disappointingly un-mean beta. :3

“I’m famished,” announced Bilbo. “I’m going to fetch a snack, do you want anything?”

“Now?” asked Thorin plaintively.

“Yes, now, I’m afraid,” replied Bilbo, pushing gently at Thorin’s arm. “I’m hungry, Thorin, get off me.”

“You are ever hungry,” grumbled Thorin, only tightening his grip about his husband’s soft, warm body, inhaling the lingering smell of warm sweat that clung to his skin and hair. It was not as if a King of Erebor needed to cuddle for hours after a tumble, but his husband’s eagerness to jump straight back out of bed was discomforting.

Bilbo had given up on the arm and was now patting his hair. “A Hobbit has needs,” he said firmly. “And whilst you, my King, have most admirably fulfilled several of them in the past half hour, I don’t think any part of those activities could constitute a proper meal. It isn’t as if I even got to swallow.”

Thorin grimaced into his husband’s neck. “Such poetry,” he growled.

“If you wanted poetry you should’ve followed your nephew’s example and married an Elf,” said Bilbo, and at such an insult Thorin could scarcely do otherwise than throw his arms wide. 

“Go,” he ordered, casting himself back against the pillows. “Go, and be damned, you insolent Hobbit.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Bilbo blithely. He swung his legs back over the edge of the bed and paused. “Where’s my shirt?”

Thorin had flung an arm over his eyes by now, and did not bother to move it. “I know not.”

There was the very distinct sound of irritated Hobbit sighing, and soft flat footfalls on stone, followed by a faint splashing as Bilbo mopped their exertions from his skin. Bilbo was muttering under his breath as he searched their chamber, a litany of mild complaints, and Thorin could not help smiling fondly as he listened.

He opened his eyes suddenly at Bilbo’s squawk.

“However did it get up there?” asked Bilbo. He pointed up over the doorway, where something pale wafted gently, like a tangled flag. The precise angles of Erebor’s architecture were interrupted wherever a particularly fine seam of natural stone had been encountered, and over the doorway of their bedroom was one such outcropping, a sharp jut of rock that protruded into the room. 

Thorin stared. His eyes were not so sharp as Bilbo’s, but there was no mistaking it. In their earlier haste to reach the bed, he was well aware things had been thrown about a little. Nonetheless, it looked as if Bilbo’s shirt might now be somewhat hard to retrieve.

“Borrow mine,” he said, reaching for his own tunic. Hobbits had not the strength of Dwarves, and it lay only at the foot of the bed.

“Borrow it,” snorted Bilbo, pulling it over his head with haste. “I shall bloody well keep it, you see if I don’t. Did you want anything?”

Thorin merely grunted in response, turning his face back to the pillows. He would be sticky if he did not rise to wash himself soon, he knew. As the door to their receiving rooms clicked shut, he hauled himself upright with a groan, and crossed to where Bilbo had left a damp washcloth neatly draped along the side of the basin.

The thick Dwarven pelt of Thorin’s belly required a little soap, but he was refreshed soon enough and turned back to the door just as Bilbo emerged through it, carrying a plateful of sliced persimmons and cinnamon bread. They both paused, regarding one another.

“What a fine sight,” sighed Bilbo, his gaze travelling appreciatively over Thorin’s battered, scarred old body. 

Thorin could not help thinking he had the better view, however, since his tunic, much too large for Bilbo, slipped most enticingly down the Hobbit’s bare shoulder, its deep blue a rich contrast to his pale, freckled skin and complementing the russet of his bed-rumpled hair. He had rolled back the sleeves so they would not cover his deft little hands, and the weight of the fine woolen cloth draped over his body teasingly, softly outlining the curve of his arse when he bent to set down his meal upon a low table. The hem of the tunic hung down past his knees, emphasising not so much his smallness as the strong, thick muscle of his calves. 

Bilbo made a small squeak as Thorin crept up on him, wrapping his arms about his husband’s waist and nuzzling into his curls again, that grew a little longer every day. 

“You should keep the tunic,” murmured Thorin. “It suits you.”

“I doubt that, it isn’t remotely my size!” laughed Bilbo, half-turning in Thorin’s hold. “I must look ridiculous. Although I will say it’s wonderfully warm and soft. You know I always thought wool against the skin would itch, but this is woven so fine it’s not scratchy at all. It smells nice too, sort of homely, and a little of you, of course, which is pleasant in itself...”

Thorin reached past him for a slice of fruit and pressed it to Bilbo’s lips. His husband paused, eyes narrowing.

“Are you trying to shut me up?” asked Bilbo.

“I am trying to feed you,” said Thorin. “So that you will not be hungry. Then once you are not hungry, I will take you back to our bed, and kiss every inch of your skin that is still bare. And perhaps I may persuade you to ride in my lap wearing your tunic, so I may properly admire how well it looks on you.”

Saying such things always made Thorin feel a fool, but it was worth it for the effect upon his husband. Bilbo had gone very still, his eyes wide, and a blush creeping over his face and neck that spread down to the slipped neckline of the tunic, so pretty it was all Thorin could do not to throw him onto the bed that instant.

“Yes, well,” said Bilbo breathlessly, “I think that could be arranged. Although we do have to fetch my shirt down at some point.” 

Then he obediently ate his slice of persimmon, and Thorin could not help but laugh.


	19. After a bath (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "I was thinking you could write something for that picture you drew, with Bilbo, Thorin, and Frodo bathing together? OR maybe Bilbo watching Thorin comb his long hair and being kinda hypnotized by it" from [ruto](rutobuka2.tumblr.com).
> 
> How about... BOTH? ([the pic referred to is here, btw](http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/image/163682501668))

“I shall have to make you sleep on a towel,” murmurs Bilbo, his voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the pop and crackle of the fire. “You’ll soak through the pillows if I don’t.” 

Thorin merely grunts his assent. The slow, caressing strokes of the brush have long since soothed any tangles from his wet hair, but there is a great deal of it, and it takes a long while to dry. Most likely it will still be damp even come morning. “No fault of mine,” he mumbles, leaning back against his husband’s legs.

They sit beside the parlour fireplace, Bilbo in his particular armchair and Thorin at his feet. It wasn’t as though Thorin had intended to wash his hair that day, but their adopted nephew had other ideas, tipping a full bucket of sudsy water over Thorin’s head as they all bathed together. At the time it had amused the Hobbits enormously, though Thorin had fought down a degree of annoyance. Now, he considers it to have been a capital turn of events. There is little any Dwarf liked more than to have their hair brushed out by a loved one, and in the dim evening quiet of Bag End it is heaven indeed. 

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” cautions Bilbo, amusement clear in his tone. “I can’t carry you to bed.”

Thorin sighs, and rouses himself from the pleasant half-doze he has fallen into. “Then I shall carry you,” he says, turning to scoop Bilbo into his arms. 

Thorin’s hair is still trailing drips across the parquet behind him as he sweeps his beloved off to their bedroom, and such sensible thoughts as towels upon pillows are sadly forgotten ‘til morning.


	20. Rainy Days (bagginshield)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the first-line prompt: "The rain fell in drenching sheets and Bilbo, watching from the window, wondered at how a mountain could be so warm despite the weather outside." from [emsie](http://emsiecat.tumblr.com/).

The rain fell in drenching sheets and Bilbo, watching from the window, wondered at how a mountain could be so warm despite the weather outside. He pushed back his chair, the letter on his desk abandoned, and walked over to the doors of their balcony, turning the heavy black iron key with a click. The soft pattering sounds against glass disappeared into the endless susurration of the rain outside, and Bilbo stepped out into it without a further thought. 

All the great vale of Erebor lay before him, though indistinct through the grey curtain of the weather. He held his arms outstretched at his sides and turned his face up into the falling water. It was rather refreshing, after hours of stuffy reports inside a mountain that could be a little stuffy itself, for a Hobbit. 

“Bilbo?” called Thorin from their desk, where he still sat. He peered at his husband from over the spectacles he wore for close-work. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know. Watering the plants, or something,” replied Bilbo, glancing back, and noted with amusement the brief flicker of confusion that crossed his husband’s face.

After a moment, Thorin lifted the wire frames from his nose, folding them carefully and laying them atop the latest reports and petitions for his attention. Looking deeply dubious, he crossed to the doorway, leaning half-way out as if intending to join his strange husband. 

As the first drops struck his face, Thorin grimaced and ducked back indoors, shaking his head. “Forgive me, dearest, but I do not see the appeal.”

“No,” agreed Bilbo, by now drenched to the skin and beginning to shiver. It was not warm rain, not at this time of the year and almost never this far East. He pushed a handful of wet hair back from his forehead, and wiped his eyes, laughing. “To be honest, the novelty’s wearing off for me, too.”

He turned back to their rooms, closing the balcony behind him, his wide, wet feet slapping against the stone floor, and surveyed his sodden robes with something akin to delight. 

“Well I can’t do my paperwork like this,” he announced. “I’ll catch a chill. Time for a hot bath, I think - care to join me?”


End file.
